


Incipit

by lucius_complex



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Rush (2013)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:15:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucius_complex/pseuds/lucius_complex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James knows the ways of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incipit

  

 

 

_Sometimes the way to milk and honey is through the body._

_Sometimes the way in is a song._

_But there are three ways in the world: dangerous, wounding,_

_and beauty._

James knew the way of the world and what it requires of him so it didn’t matter how many times he called Lauda a rat; how they privately sized each other up across the pit or publicly sniped in front of the cameras.

It didn’t matter that they took their pissing contest from post to post and state to state; year after year – the only thing that matters was how James would deliberately smirk at the other's direction whenever it was his turn to collect the wreath and cup and he’d always take a moment to whisper something that would makes Lauda look at him, look _up_ at him with that grimace, ironic twist in his lips, eyes like acid.

It didn’t matter that, regardless of subject matter, where they were or whom they were speaking to or about, Lauda would somehow always end the conversation with _‘screw you, James,’_ or _‘because you’re an arsehole, James’_ before turning away, and something in the lit of his voice would makes James grit his teeth, make any motor function he has between forehead and chest lock up completely as if live wires had been taped to it.

It didn’t matter if their interactions took up an hour or fifteen seconds, they always left his lungs feeling too tight, as if his ribcage had suddenly shrunk. Those dark, relentless eyes would always find and unnerve something in James that was deep and buried and compel it to the surface; a memory, a twitch, some long forgotten bruise. Switched on, there was something in Lauda’s magnetic, compressed presence that could heat up the room like iron coils but always left James cold when he walked away – when he inevitably walked away.

And it didn’t matter if he’s _always_ aware in these moments how much smaller Lauda really is, how’d it’d only take a few strides for James to catch up to him and grab his arm. James knows he’s a big man; he’s been in enough brawls and taken enough people to bed to know he has a physical advantage in nearly everything. He’s aware he's a big guy with big, worker hands whilst Lauda is-

He’s _aware_ , whether he wants to or not.

Those days when there were no crowd to pander to and nobody to impress James used to swallow his words; the tic in his jaw preventing him from physically rearranging the lines of Lauda’s arrogant mouth with his fists. These days he swallowed his words to make sure they dont go on autopilot – that it doesn’t rack up irreversible damage attempting to rile the dark haired man into speaking again – into saying _anything_ again, so that he could see hot word pouring out a sharp hot mouth, changing the quality of the air between them.

One time he’d caught Lauda staring at him from a corner of a tent, caught it but had been unable to access it, which had surprised and unsettled him because it’s not at all like the Austrian’s usual laser sharp _come on arsehole_  glare. It wasn’t until James had walked away when he looked down and realised Lauda had been staring at his chest; at the exposed triangle of skin between the shirt buttons he hadn’t bothered fastening after shower;

And hours later he’d gone home alone and spent the night running his fingers along that exposed patch of skin, strangely disconnected from himself. As if those fingers, somehow tremulous and unfamiliar, weren’t his. As if somebody else’s hands were touching him.

And it didn’t matter if sometimes (more than ever) he’d say the wrong things because his latent brain has inexplicably taken to categorizing his desired reaction to Lauda’s presence not under _attempt to defeat and humiliate_ but _attempt to disarm and take to bed;_ so that when the cameras leave the tent and Niki glances over and scoffs at James for ‘ _using your looks to make up for a dearth of talent,’_ he’d grin without thinking and question _‘so you think I’m good looking?’_

And Lauda had sniffed and retorted _‘don’t flatter yourself,’_  but James got to see almost down to the microsecond the exact moment those dark eyes flicker up to his face and stay for at least three fourths of a second too long – and they both know they’ve missed out on the chance to turn the moment into a joke - missed it by a mile.

Then the Austrian’s face would tighten with familiar bitterness as he turned his back on James to go look for Marlene or one of his lackeys or whatever the hell strange little Austrian rodents scurry away to do, and James would be expelling breath like he’s been underwater. He knows it’s his fault; bantering with Lauda the way he would with some bird at a bar, _what he fuck was he thinking_ ; but then he’d seldom ever needed to think about response moderation and it'd never mattered before, except suddenly it does. Suddenly it matters very much.

James knew the ways of the world and what it required of him – to the victor the spoils; they who could keep to the straight and narrow. They who didn’t suddenly, inexplicably dreamt so darkly or tried so hard to escape themselves. The Niki Laudas of the world. Nothing every changed for rats; they kept chasing the same thing, spinning on the same wheel. The Austrian himself never changed his reports or his stories or the way he treated James, always launching into another variation of his  _‘you can’t keep this up indefinitely, look at your shitty lifestyle_ ’ spiel that would make James snort and shake his head and these days maybe lean in just a little more.  

It didn’t matter what words were employed; James had long trained himself to barely hear what Lauda was saying, couldn’t repeat the words back even if he wasn’t half arsed drunk. He knew the rat _hated_ that, thinks James enjoys being deliberately insulting to him but James is not special in that regard; _everybody_ ignores the rat because he’s full of shit and James wasn’t interested in the content; all he really wanted to do was listen to the strangely addictive quality of Lauda's voice. 

And if sometimes he can’t help but imagine that voice murmuring out of the darkness, the huffs of breaths it would make against naked skin in an intimate setting of twilight and stillness and muted vehicle noises from hotel windows - that somehow James just  _knows_  with an exhausted, familiar jolt - knows with absolutely certainty the width and measure of Lauda’s hips and how they would feel settled against him, the way it would feel to press his hands –

-if he’s taken of late to aching with some strange hollowness – or rather, to noticing there’s something _different_ about the emptiness now – well it doesn’t matter either way.

It doesn't matter how much shit he stirs in Lauda’s direction, dangling words and laughter and his own presence like silvers of bait, like punishment; poking, waiting for the rat to try to bite his fingers off.  

It doesn’t matter that the media thinks Suzy left him so heartbroken that he no longer dates blonds.

James knows the ways of the world, and he knows it doesn’t matter.

[FINI]

 

**Author's Note:**

> Poem by Linda Hogan. Leave a cookie if you liked it as its my first time in this universe :)


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